


the helpless, selfish, one of a kind

by komet



Series: a study on harry hook [2]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Denial of Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Harry Hook-centric, M/M, Underage Drinking, sometimes u just have to kiss ur homies on da lips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komet/pseuds/komet
Summary: His hands are on Gil’s jaw and his face is burning and he’s angry again, but this is the kind that makes his blood sing so he lets it roll over him.( alternatively: harry is frustrated. gil is a good listener - and a good kisser, too. )
Relationships: Gil/Harry Hook
Series: a study on harry hook [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027927
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	the helpless, selfish, one of a kind

**Author's Note:**

> this is saved in my docs as harold and gilliam be kissing and shit

In general, Gil is poor at keeping secrets, but not for the usual reasons. It’s not that he’s malicious or untrustworthy or deceitful -- rather, he just can’t often tell when something is meant to be kept quiet.

The Shrimpy thing, for instance, is a repeat offender. He doesn’t actually mean anything by it, but it’s Harry’s job to make sure the crew is showing Uma nothing but respect. After he shoves Gil around, Harry will tell him to stop bringing it up, and his brow will furrow and he’ll say that everybody knows about it already. They go round in circles like that until Harry gives it up with the roll of his eyes.

That said, for all his obliviousness, Gil is a good listener. He does typically understand when he’s being told something in confidence, and Harry appreciates that. Sometimes he just has words that crawl up the back of his throat and stick to his tongue, and Uma doesn’t always have the time to hear them. Gil, on the other hand, has the time when Harry decides he does, which he doesn’t feel particularly bad about. If he weren’t with Harry, then he’d be working with the rest of the crew. He's doing Gil a favor, really.

Tonight, that same sort of favor finds them on a rooftop, of which Harry walks precariously along the edge. There’s a bottle of bitter, eye-watering moonshine clutched in one hand, and there’s a slight wobble to his step. The fall would not kill him, he doesn’t think, but it still makes his heart beat that much quicker. It gives his anger a voice.

“My father used to tell these stories,” he says, putting one foot carefully in front of the other like he’s walking the plank. Gil, for his part, lounges on a ratty old couch that’d been dragged up here ages ago. He won’t tell Harry to be careful, but he watches attentively. “He’d tell me all about how the ‘old _Jolly Roger_ was the most fearsome ship to ever sail the Seven Seas,’” Harry continues, voice dropping and accent thinning out in a gruff mimicry of his father.

“Not the _Black Pearl_ or the _Flying Dutchman_ ,” Harry sneers, and his eyes glint bitterly as he takes another drink. It’s liquid fire going down, and he talks through his grimace. He’s wound up tonight, live-wired and spiteful. “It was my father before it was any of them. He was the greatest pirate that ever lived, and he wanted the same for me, you know. Not Harriet,” who was supposed to come out a boy, “and not CJ,” who was never meant to be born at all. “ _Me_.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Gil chimes in, frowning a little. For a moment, Harry had forgotten that he was actually talking to somebody.

“Of course it was,” Harry snaps impatiently, looking a little proud and a little more frenzied. “He knew I could be even better than he was, and I could show him if we weren’t on the wrong side of this _fucking_ barrier!” His words pick up more and more momentum as they spring from his tongue until he’s one long line of ire, and he ends up flinging the bottle with a growl. It doesn’t hit said barrier, of course, and in fact he thinks he hears an alarmed shout from down below. 

He thinks, then, not of broken glass and slums but of open seas; of wind and sunshine, salt on his skin and dazzling light on the rolling waves. All of these are things he has never felt before, not really, not the way his father spoke of them. Captain James Hook is largely a cruel, unsentimental man, but there were nights when he missed the sea and recalled it so fondly to his only son, as if it were a lover. 

His rage falls second to longing, briefly. There’s a whole world beyond this island and beyond Auradon, and he knows this despite how hard it is to wrap his head around it. There are riches to be taken and adventures to be had and fights to be won, and a little thrill bursts in his chest as he imagines it with vivid clarity. 

He’s standing at the helm of a ship with Uma, and she’s laden with all of the beautiful things that she deserves, and she’s got this fierce smile on her face. Gil’s right there with them and he looks so happy; he looks at Harry in amazement and Harry feels so proud and so, _so_ alive.

He would give anything to have that. He’d give his life for them to have it.

By the time Gil speaks again and Harry realizes that he’s smiling, it can’t have been more than a minute or two.

“Can I ask you something?” Gil says, curious and mild. 

Harry remembers where he is, his smile slips away, and suddenly he misses that alcohol. He looks for another moment at the city of ruin clustered before him, dappled with lights along crowded streets, and his chest feels so heavy that it physically aches. Wanting it out of his sight, he spins on his heel too quickly, wobbles backward a moment before he lurches forward to step back onto the roof properly. It’s been a few moments now and he realizes that Gil is waiting for him to answer, so he waves a hand without looking at him. _Go on._

“When you talk about your dad,” Gil says slowly, like he’s trying to gather his words, “you always say words like ‘was,’ you know? Like . . . he’s gone or something.”

Harry goes still. He continues to stare at his hook for a beat, head feeling a little heavy. He thinks vaguely that he might be a little drunk for this. “What’s the question?” he asks sharply, finally turning his head to meet Gil’s eyes. He looks innocuous as ever, and Harry knows he shouldn’t be tensing his shoulders defensively the way that he is. 

“Oh, uh -- why?” Gil tilts his head, and for whatever reason, it makes Harry _angry_. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the misery that’s never _not_ hanging over their heads. Maybe he’s just caught off guard. Whatever it is, he has to consciously remind himself that this is Gil he’s talking to. Gil, who means no harm; who never does. 

In any case, Harry is flushed with alcohol and anger, and he takes perhaps a little longer than necessary to shrug off his long coat. He’s stalling. The trouble is not that he doesn’t know the answer to this question, but rather that he didn’t think he’d ever have to put it into words. He didn’t expect anyone to ever ask him to -- and least of all not Gil. 

He drops his coat over his shoulder and it falls carelessly to the ground; he’s too used to having someone pick it right back up for him. “Well, he certainly isn’t dead,” he drawls sarcastically, glancing off as the rest of his words bubble slowly to the surface. He sighs sharply before he begins. “See now, when he found out I wasn’t Captain, oh, it was a scandal. Do you know, he told me to kill Uma? Said that it wasn’t too late and I should take what’s mine before I ruin the family name.” The memory is recalled with a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Gil is watching patiently as Harry paces, slow and undeliberate. Sometimes Harry wonders where it comes from, that kindness, that patience. His mother, perhaps. If ever Gil speaks of her, it’s fondly and without spite -- and though he speaks of many things in a similar way, this has always seemed different to Harry. He’s never met the lady himself, but he thinks she must be kind. He cannot fathom the idea that someone could grow up like that all on their own. Not here. 

“Well, you know what I told him,” he continues with the wave of his hand, and he spares a glance at Gil just in time to catch his questioning look. Harry rolls his eyes. “I told him _no_ ,” he clarifies, “I told him that Uma’s a better captain than I’d ever be. He’s never taken kindly to bad news, you know. Take a look at his old crew and you can see it.” Harry brings a hand up to his chest as he says this, tugs his shirt to the side to show off one of his scars. This one stretches diagonally over his collarbone, and even Gil takes it for what it is.

Harry doesn’t mind scars, and he does not even particularly mind that his father took a swing at him. What he minds is that this scar in particular is a permanent reminder of his father’s disappointment, his disdain. Harry shouldn’t care about making him proud, really. He’s done all that he can. He’s made a name for himself, he walks through these streets and sends people scrambling to get out of his way. He’s a legend in his own right -- why, then, can’t he seem to outrun his father’s shadow? 

“Anyway,” he says distractedly, waving his hand in a small circle as if to keep his thoughts rolling, “you asked me why I talk about him like he’s _gone_ , eh?” Harry pauses now, thinks of how to word this bit. He makes up his mind shortly, preceding it with a scoff. “Suppose the point is, ever since that day, he may as well be. He doesn’t think of me like he used to. CJ’s said it serves me right.” 

He licks his lips and goes quiet for a minute, thinks of saying more but doesn’t. He’s tipsy and worn out and his nerves are still buzzing with coiled energy. Excitement, but the wrong kind. Maybe restlessness is a better word for it. 

He’s drumming up something to fill the quiet with when Gil finally responds. 

“That makes sense,” he says, amiable and nodding slowly in understanding. That’s all he says about it, but for whatever reason, it makes Harry pause. The knot in his chest loosens and he lets out a breath he shouldn’t have been holding, all because _that makes sense_. It lets him know that perhaps he isn’t as out of his mind as he often feels he is, and that is a startling comfort.

Gil is too kind. Gil is too _good_ for this place and he really ought to stop looking at Harry like that, all affection and understanding. He ought to stop looking like he _knows_ Harry, like he _wants_ to know Harry, because it’s making Harry’s heart pound and it is not because of the alcohol, not because of the heights. Before it can tie his stomach into knots and before he can think too much about it, he’s crossing over to Gil. This time, his steps are sure.

This is a familiar dance. They’ve done it before. 

Gil’s hands are on Harry’s waist before Harry’s even fully down in his lap, and their lips meet smoothly. It’s all very heedless and devil-may-care, and it’s just the sort of thrill that reminds Harry that he’s young and reckless. His hands are on Gil’s jaw and his face is burning and he’s angry again, but this is the kind that makes his blood sing so he lets it roll over him. 

Gil’s always been a good kisser; Harry learned this two years ago. It was just after they won back some territory from Mal, and the fight was beautiful and Harry was _buzzing_ with the rush of it. He felt ready to burst so he just grabbed Gil, yanked him close and mashed their lips together with all the violence of two blades crossing. It was a quick thing, but it stuck. It became normal when adrenaline was running high (and even when it wasn’t), and neither of them overthinks it. It feels good -- it doesn’t have to matter beyond that. 

Tonight Gil handles him just as well as he always does, wild thing that Harry is, and they meet again and again and again until they’ve robbed each other of breath. Harry had ended up pulling Gil on top of him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other clutching a strong bicep. They stay like that for a while, breathing hard and feeling absolutely electric. ( He doesn't think about what he does or does not feel, because it doesn't matter. This is good and he thinks it might keep him sane and Gil is beautiful like this. )

Harry is warm with alcohol and exertion, and all the tightness in his chest has slipped away. The energy is still there but it sits easier now, high in the flush of his cheeks and bright in his blue eyes.

Eventually, Gil smiles at him. “You wanna start a fight?”

Harry meets him with a wild grin. 

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> this might turn into a series xo  
> also i live off of comments!


End file.
